


Moving Pictures

by coricomile



Series: BB!Patrick Makes a Sex Tape [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Object Insertion, Sex Tapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tape is lodged between a box set of the original Star Wars trilogy and a battered copy of Sixteen Candles. It's unmarked and unboxed and the stickers have been pulled off. Pete grins and pulls it down from the movie rack. Obviously, it's embarrassing. Which says something because, really? Sixteen Candles?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving Pictures

Patrick isn't home when Pete stops by to pick him up. They have plans to head to the movies after Patrick's out of school, and Pete's stoked. They're going to catch the new Christian Bale film with the serial killer and the hookers, but if Patrick doesn't get home soon, they're going to be late, and Pete's going to be petulant because seriously, _Christian Bale_.

Pete takes the cookies and orange juice Patricia offers him up to Patrick's room. He spends the first five minutes enjoying real, homemade goodies, a nice contrast to his mother's store bought ones. The next five minutes are spent poking through Patrick's impressive CD collection. The next rearranging Patrick's sock drawer. Pete's ready to drive to the school himself and demand an explanation when something catches his eye.

The tape is lodged between a box set of the original Star Wars trilogy and a battered copy of Sixteen Candles. It's unmarked and unboxed, and the stickers have been pulled off. Pete grins and pulls it down from the movie rack. Obviously, it's embarrassing. Which says something because, really? Sixteen Candles?

Pete pops the tape into the VHS player and hits play. He's hoping for Disney. Maybe the Little Mermaid. Something good for at least a month's worth of ribbing. He hops onto Patrick's bed, grabbing a pillow as he bounces to a halt. He settles into the groove in the center of the mattress, waiting for the video to start.

The TV screen fuzzes out to snow for a few seconds before showing a shaky bedroom. There's a bed in the middle of the frame, David Bowie posters on the wall. A pair of green pillows. Pete looks down at the pillow he's holding then back to the screen. Well, then. 

"Alright, I can say I’ve done this." Patrick's voice floats through the speakers, a little distorted, but still distinct. The camera shakes again before settling down. A body, sturdy and familiar, steps in front of it before Patrick bends down to look in the lens. He's adjusting something off-screen, a blush across his cheeks and nose. "And no one's _ever_ going to see it." His lips are pink and wet, like he's been licking them. Pete swallows and scoots up on the bed. 

Patrick steps back enough for the camera to catch his entire body. He shifts nervously before crossing his arms at the waist and grabbing the hem of his t-shirt. He pulls it up and off, dropping it to the side. There's baby fat clinging to his stomach and hips. It’s almost endearing. He adjusts his knit cap nervously and wets his lips.

Pete squirms. Looks around for any signs of a prank. Thinks, _Is that really Patrick?_ His cute, shy, sweet, innocent little Patrick? On screen, Patrick tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. Pete reaches down to adjust himself. His cock has taken definite interest in the progression of the video.

Patrick pops open the button of his jeans and pushes them down, wiggling his hips to get free. They fall off screen, and Patrick's left standing in his grey boxer-briefs and cap, awkward and vulnerable. The outline of his hard-on is visible. He palms himself, sucking on his lower lip. His other hand slides up over his tummy, across his chest. A soft sigh catches on the speakers when he pinches one pink nipple. It stiffens under his fingers and, to be fair, he moves to the other one.

Pete rubs his hips discreetly against the mattress, trying not to think about the guilt eating away at the back of his mind. This really isn’t his to look at. Patrick will _kill_ him if he ever finds out. And yet- 

He watches Patrick turn to crawl onto the bed, eyeing the curve of Patrick's ass and, holy shit, he's _laying on the same bed_. In the same spot. Ah, hell. Pete’s never claimed to be a good person. 

On screen, Patrick's settling in against the headboard, back leaned against it. His hat slides up a bit as he reaches down to rub his palm over his crotch again. That’s endearing, too, that he’s left it on. Patrick’s mouth falls open, the sound too quiet for the mic to pick up. He lifts his hips long enough to kick off his underwear before getting comfortable again.

His cock is thick and blood dark, resting against his pale thigh. Pete's own dick jerks at the sight. He scrambles to sit up, undoing the fly of his jeans. Screw guilt. This shit is _hot_. He pushes his pants to his thighs and mimics Patrick's position.

Patrick lifts a hand to his mouth. Licks it. Wraps it around his cock. The choked off moan is made staticky by the speakers, but Pete's pretty sure it's still the hottest thing he's ever heard. Patrick pumps his fist slowly, his other hand working it's way back up his chest.

Pete gnaws on his lip, watching Patrick slip two fingers into his mouth. His pink, pink lips are stretched prettily, and his cheeks hollow a little. Pete fists his dick and strokes hard. He will be seeing this image until the day he _dies_. 

The head of Patrick's cock is shiny and wet, and Patrick moans around his fingers when he rubs his thumb over the ridge under it. His hips buck up sharply, in time to the rhythm of his hand. He pulls his knees up, and Pete has to yank his hand off his dick. Patrick's bared and exposed, his tiny pink hole tight and begging to be fucked. 

Patrick pulls his fingers from his mouth with a pop. He trails them down his chest, over his stomach, past his cock. One finger rubs over his hole, teasing at it. Pete groans and fists the pillows on either side of him. On screen, the finger presses in, and Patrick hisses sharply.

He slides the finger in and out slowly, thighs tense, toes curled. The hand on his cock is working absently, small, unplanned movements. He's wiggling his hips, fucking himself on his own hand. Too soon, he pulls it out, and Pete's about to find the remote to rewind when Patrick crosses his first and middle fingers and presses them back inside.

Patrick's letting out little _ah, ah, ah_ sounds as he twists his wrist and rocks his hips down. His eyes are screwed shut, his lips wet and parted. There's a shine of sweat over his temples. His hat's fallen off, his hair sticking to his cheeks. 

Pete wants nothing more in that moment to kiss him. Patrick, fucking Patrick with his anger issues and sweet voice, fucking himself for a nameless audience. His chest tightens. Pete ignores it. Now isn’t the time for those kinds of thoughts.

Patrick turns over and starts rummaging through his dresser. Pete frowns, but the view of Patrick bent over, asshole stretched and wet, is a definitely a good consolation prize. Patrick pulls out a bottle of lotion and- Pete blinks and looks closer- a hairbrush? The handle of the brush is thick and ribbed, solid black plastic.

Patrick pumps lotion onto his hand and slicks up the handle. Pete is suddenly seeing things more clearly. He kicks his pants off and spreads his legs, wrapping his hand around his dick again. There is _no way_ he's going to last through this. 

Carefully, Patrick spreads himself open and places the tip of the handle against his hole. He whines as it slides in, pressing it up until the square head is against the swell of his asscheeks. It looks a little ridiculous, but Pete’s cock throbs regardless.

Patrick pulls the brush out to the tip and thrusts it back in, hard enough to leave a red mark against his ass. He moans, low and long, and works his hips down against it. The rhythm is awkward and stuttering, but the hand around Patrick's cock has picked up again. Pete jerks himself in time with Patrick, the tightening in his groin familiar.

A knock comes through the speakers and then his own voice, muffled by the door. Patrick's eyes snap open, and then he's coming, biting down on one of his pillows, still working the brush in and out of his ass. Pete manages to get one more pull on his dick before his own sticky come coats his fingers. The TV goes black.

Pete takes a few deep breaths before pulling his jeans back on. He ejects the tape and shoves it back into its spot, hand shaking. He's just starting to sit down again when the door flies open.

"Sorry. I had detention," Patrick explains hurriedly, tossing his bag onto the floor. His cheeks are pink and he's breathing heavily, like he ran the entire way. There's a soft thump, and Pete chokes when he sees Patrick's hairbrush on the floor. "You okay?" Patrick cocks his head, eying him suspiciously.

"Yeah," Pete coughs out. "I'm good."


End file.
